


In You I Trust

by ThePenguinOfDeath



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Conversations, M/M, Minor Injuries, Pre-Movie(s), Pre-Relationship, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePenguinOfDeath/pseuds/ThePenguinOfDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson didn't know how he'd managed to become the go-to guy for every Barton-related problem. The fact remained that he had somehow become the one person Barton could trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In You I Trust

**Author's Note:**

> It feels strange not writing an AU, but I felt these two deserved a (vaguely) canon fic. So.

“Sir, we have a situation.”

Agent Coulson glanced up from his unappetising bowl of macaroni cheese. SHIELD really ought to upgrade their catering staff – they were feeding assassins, they should be kept well fed for everyone’s safety.

“Junior Agent Munroe,” He greeted the nervous-looking man blandly, “Please, take a seat.”

“Sir, with all due respect, you’re needed in the medical bay, one of the field agents...” Munroe trailed off, seemingly not finding the words.

Coulson already had an inkling of what was going on. “Barton?” He asked, picking up another forkful of macaroni.

Munroe nodded, seemingly relieved that Coulson had caught on. “Can you please come?”

“I thought Sitwell was acting as his handler.” Coulson replied mildly. “Unless he’s doing something dangerous enough to warrant me missing my lunch break I suggest you speak to him.”  
“Agent Sitwell requested you, sir.”

Coulson paused. He had trained with Jasper Sitwell, he knew the guy was tough. If Sitwell needed to ask for help then something was seriously wrong.  
“I see. Thank you, Junior Agent Munroe, I’ll show myself down.”

He stood up, abandoning the rest of his macaroni cheese (not that it was much of a loss) and smoothed out invisible wrinkles in his suit as he walked towards the medical bay. At least it wasn’t a Saturday – Saturday lunchtime meant sausages, and as long as you didn’t ask what was in them it was the most palatable meal of the week.

As he walked, Coulson wondered idly what Barton had done this time. He had actually had surprisingly little to do with the feisty agent since his recruitment – they had certainly never been assigned to work together – yet for some reason, he had managed to become the go-to guy for every Barton-related problem. When Barton had broken into the range at 3am for the first time to practice archery, Coulson had been the one to explain the limited range access times to him (and promptly get him a 24hour pass – he knew a thing or two about insomnia). When Barton had disobeyed his orders on his first field mission and taken out the target ahead of schedule, Coulson had been the one to calm Handler Jung down then arrange a week-long team building exercise as Barton’s punishment. When Barton has made his fellow trainee field agents cry for the third time, Coulson had been the one to assign him to teach the janitors to use a bow. (He had been pleasantly surprised that Barton had not only done it, but proved to be an extremely adept teacher).

When he had found Clint having a panic attack in the ventilation shaft by Hill’s office, Coulson had been the one to sit there for three hours persuading him to come out then proceeded to spar with him until they were both dead on their feet with exhaustion. But no-one else needed to know about that. (Again, Coulson knew a few things about panic attacks – no-one at SHIELD had a past they were particularly proud of).

Reaching the elevator, Coulson stepped up to the retinal scanner before swiping his security pass. The doors swung open, and he pressed the button for the 3rd floor (Medical Bay and Laboratories), checking his surroundings as he did so. Better to be safe than sorry. As expected, he noted that Junior Agent Munroe had elected not to follow – he was probably finishing up the last of Coulson’s abandoned macaroni cheese. The younger ones were like that.

The elevator stopped on the 2nd floor (Training Areas and Weapons Development) and a vaguely familiar trainee stepped in. Coulson carefully checked his mental files for her name – Felicity Jones, 23, bombs and explosives specialist. He gave her a nod and she smiled in return, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

As soon as the doors opened on the 3rd floor Coulson swept out, heading directly for the medical bay. He could just about hear the sounds of a commotion from back here, which wasn’t a good sign. Just in case, he flicked the small recording device in his tie pin on.

The medical bay was one of the few areas of headquarters that any clearance level could enter, because everyone wanted to visit injured friends. Coulson barely had to wave his badge in the vague direction of the scanner before he was admitted – to chaos.

The reception area was a mess. A vase of flowers lay smashed on the floor, petals scattered everywhere and water seeping across the tiled floor. One of the nurses – Killian McDrury, his mind supplied – was sat on one of the waiting chairs clutching his stomach. Another nurse was leaning over him like she was trying to tend to the wound. One of the ceiling lights seemed to have come partially loose from its fittings, and Coulson sighed when he saw the displaced ceiling tile. Sloppy work – clearly Barton wanted everyone to know where he’d gone.

In the corner of the room Coulson noticed Jasper looking harried. He started to head over, reassured that his friend was fine when he glanced over as though he could hear Coulson’s legendary silent footsteps.

“Phil. I swear, if they assign Barton to me for one more mission I am going to blow his fucking brains out, genius marksman or not.”

Coulson’s face was his usual emotionless mask. “What happened, Jasper?”

“It was a routine survey op – watching a Jamaican drug cartel. We had a few of the trainees out because it was such an easy mission. Barton was supposed to be camped out in a hotel room, observing the area, but for some unknown reason he started tailing this guy. Long story short, he ended up with a knife cut across his arm. Nothing serious, but he freaked out about the painkillers the doctor was putting him on and hauled himself out here, punched a couple of people and swung off the lights into the rafters. Fucking insane. I do wonder where they pick up half the newbies these days.”

“You’ve read Barton’s file.” Coulson’s eyes flickered across the ceiling, and he mentally recalled the blueprints he had memorised for this floor. “I’m assuming you didn’t call me to crawl through the ceiling after him?”

Jasper sighed. “He’s not coming down for anyone else, but he respects you. You might be able to talk to him.”

Coulson didn’t think he should be any better at this than any other handler. They were all trained to deal with unusually difficult recruits. His own old handler had favoured the strategy of sending disobedient recruits on boring civilian cleanup duties – it had worked surprisingly well. No-one enjoyed two weeks of sifting through rubble when they could be shooting at things.  
But the fact remained that Coulson appeared to be the only one with the patience to handle Barton.

“I’ll talk to him. Arrange for a cleaning crew to come up here and make sure everyone’s OK. I’ll speak to Fury about this later as well.”

Jasper looked far too grateful. Coulson left before he started offering him rewards – Sitwell could be strange like that.

The last time Barton had broken out of medical – after a bullet grazed his shoulder – he had gone through the ventilation shaft in his room and ended up by the elevators. This time, Coulson had a sneaking suspicion that Barton would head somewhere else.

He proved right when he spotted him perched on the banister of the back balcony, watching his fellow trainees spar below him.

“Trainee Field Agent Barton.” Coulson greeted.

Barton’s eyes flickered to his briefly before dismissing him. “Agent Coulson. I assume you’re here to drag me back to medical.”

From anyone else, the dismissive attitude from a subordinate would be cheeky. From Barton, it was nothing short of a miracle. Taking his eyes of someone was how he showed his trust – and despite everything, Barton chose to trust Coulson. It was quite humbling.

“I hear you got yourself stabbed. It does seem like that would require medical attention.”

In the blink of an eye, Barton hopped off the banister and straightened up, holding a bandaged left arm out to Coulson.

“It’s fine. Clean, no sign of infection. They tried to tell me to rest it for a week but whichever bow I use, right or left handed, it’s not going to be rested. Then they pulled out a load of pain meds, but screw that shit, I can handle pain. This is barely a flesh wound.”

“You could have refused the medication and asked for something weaker instead of punching those trying to help and hiding in an emergency stairwell.” Coulson pointed out.

Barton shrugged. “The medical bay’s boring. Besides, if I don’t watch the competition spar I’m never going to beat them.”

“It isn’t a competition, Barton.”

“It’s always a competition.”

Coulson met Barton’s gaze – it was challenging, but at the same time there was a vulnerability hidden there, a part asking Coulson to understand.

Coulson did. He’d observed the way Barton acted. He’d read the files on him. He knew that Barton’s entire life had been a competition, a struggle to stand out, He knew that he’d never been able to trust anyone and always needed full composure – even with a stab wound – so couldn’t trust painkillers that clouded his judgement. He knew Barton’s past. It wasn’t his place to judge or hurt him for that.

“Well, if you won’t go back to the medical bay, at least head to your room at get some rest. I doubt you’ve slept.”

“I won’t sleep.”

“Don’t sleep then.”

Barton’s jaw was clenched. He seemed to be having an internal argument about something.

“I’ll get bored.”

“So talk to someone.”

“You?”

It wasn’t the first time Barton had asked. The first time, it had only been years of training that had kept Coulson from raising an eyebrow in surprise. This time, it was much easier to keep composure.

“If you want.” 

Barton already had the number for Coulson’s office phone. It wasn’t usual, for handlers to talk to their charges outside of working hours, but Coulson wasn’t Barton’s handler. Any conversations they had were simply as friends. After all his years of trust issues and neglect, the thing Barton needed most was a friend – and Coulson wasn’t one to deprive him of that.

“Alright.” Barton’s agreement was jerky, but Coulson had expected nothing less.

“I’ll be in my office. Try not to scare anyone too much when you drop out of the ceiling this time.”

That got Coulson an actual smile. “Where would be the fun in that?”

Barton stepped back towards the banister, but this time he used his right arm to cartwheel over it and land deftly on the stairs. Coulson didn’t bother to hide the slight smile that crawled across his face at Barton’s antics. The guy was a handful alright, and his psychological issues were a ticking time bomb, but he could be pretty damn amusing too.

Satisfied that he’d done his job, Coulson started to head for his office. It was 12.43 – he was technically on lunch break for another 17 minutes, and he probably had at least half an hour before anyone would bother him. That gave him plenty of time to talk Barton into taking a nap.

By the time the elevator had deposited him on basement level 4 (Classified) his phone was already ringing. Coulson absent-mindedly straightened his tie and locked the door before picking up.  
“Agent Barton.”

“Sir.” Barton fell silent.

Coulson waited for a few seconds. “Do you want me to just talk to you?”

More silence.

“Please.” Barton finally replied. He sounded uncertain.

Coulson transferred the call from the phone to his headset, picking up a form at the same time. It was a report from one of his own trainees, following an assignment in Colombia. Picking up a pen, he absent-mindedly started reading and talking at the same time.

“I have fifteen field reports to read and sign off. I’m fairly certain some of the agents who filled them in are incompetent. You would have thought a request to use printed capitals and black ink would be self-explanatory, but no, three of them are in blue and one of those is written in some kind of illegible scrawl. It reminds me of something a three-year old might produce with a crayon.”

Barton didn’t respond, but Coulson didn’t expect him to. He kept going.

“Director Fury keeps telling me that we’re going to move to online systems as soon as computer technology has developed a bit, but I have a feeling he’s delaying that just to frustrate us. He winked at me the last time I asked. If he does that too many times someone’s going to take one of his eyes out.”

A snort came down the line, followed by the sound of movement. It sounded like Barton might actually be getting ready for bed.

“I have a meeting later and I’m almost certain that the coffee machine by that meeting room is broken. I can’t imagine how we’re expected to function without caffeine. Someone really ought to do a better job at coffee machine maintenance for safety reasons. Speaking of, they really ought to improve the cafeteria food at the same time. I was down there earlier eating macaroni cheese that didn’t taste particularly like either. I’m sure it also had orange lumps in, which is rather concerning. It isn’t going to be a mission that kills me, it’s going to be food poisoning from all the junk they’re feeding us.”

There was a clatter, as though Barton had set the phone down. Coulson patiently waited until he heard the sound of it being picked up again, turning over the report he was reading as he did so. This trainee had put ‘lack of cigarette breaks’ under the complaints column. Coulson predicted him lasting another fortnight at most – smokers didn’t survive the physical training.

“Food’s pretty damn good compared to some of the shit I’ve had.”

Coulson was surprised to hear Barton’s voice, but he took it in stride.

“I’m sure it could be much worse. I was once on a mission in Marrakech and ate something that I’m fairly certain was gone-off raw crab – I didn’t stop vomiting for three days. But I actually think my school’s cafeteria food was better than the stuff here.”

“I stole school cafeteria food a few times.”

That really surprised Coulson. Not the admission of stealing – he’d read Barton’s file, and starving children could never be blamed for taking food to survive – but the school cafeteria part. Barton had never gone to school, he’d been taught to read and write by the circus.

“You broke into a school?”

“Nahh. School’s are pretty big places, they don’t always keep track of which pupils are theirs. I’d just turn up at lunch with a backpack and join the queue. No-one ever noticed.”

Coulson almost smiled at the image. SHIELD agents were resourceful, but Barton had never needed to be taught.

“Did you every have to steal food?”

The personal question threw Coulson. So far, he’d been very careful to remain professional. He was several clearance levels above Barton, and had become one of the youngest handlers SHIELD had. True, he did things for Barton that he didn’t do for other trainees, but that was because he understood him. 

Still, he wasn’t Barton’s handler, and that information was only classified if he wanted it to be.

“Yes.” Coulson admitted. He didn’t offer any other information.

Barton didn’t push. “Alright, Sir. I’m going to catch some sleep.”

“Good. Sleep well, Trainee Field Agent Barton.”

There was a pause. “And sir?”

Coulson lifted a hand, ready to disconnect the call. “Yes Agent Barton?”

“I hacked the coffee machine on basement level 1. If you put in ‘Coulson’ it’ll give you a hazelnut latte. My treat.”

Despite everything, that got a full blown smile out of Coulson. “We’ll discuss that later.”

He thought he heard Barton laugh.

“You’re welcome, Phil.”

The call was over before Coulson could react to the inappropriate use of his first name.

Barton was his insubordinate. He had to address Coulson as Agent or Sir. But at the same time, it felt... nice having Barton say his name.

Against all reason, he smiled.

Maybe that meant he could call Barton Clint.


End file.
